


Tell Me That You've Still Got the Flame

by Daiako (Achrya)



Series: Hobbit ABO [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dwarf Courting, Emotional Hurt, Gender Issues, Gossipy Hobbits, Hair Braiding, Hobbit Courting, Intersex Bilbo, Kili is plotting things, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Incest, True Mates, and all the tropes that come with it, self-image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: Bilbo Baggins is considered 'unfortunate' from birth, neither fully male nor female but rather too much of both. His life is not hard and at his age no one would dare be outwardly cruel but neither is it a happy life. When a wizard comes to offer him an adventure, and more, he can't help but weigh it against the life he has and find it...tempting. And so begins a wholly different tale of courting, mating, stubborn dwarf kings, plotting nephews, and heartfelt attempts to not die before seeing the end of the story.Paused, while I figure some things out about...things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With an Edge and Charm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215152) by [Daiako (Achrya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako). 



> So. I wrote 'With an Edge and a Charm' then had ideas to expand on it. Ideas that then ran away from me, as my ideas tend to do, and really couldn't work in the framework I had set up in that story. And so we have this as a result, a retelling of the story that veers here and there, has lots of non-canon moments, and hopefully no one dies at the end. *fingers crossed* (You'd think I'd know or would have some manner of control butttt you'd be wrong.)

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. This hole was, it was generally agreed, the nicest in Hobbiton and any Hobbit who lived in it was lucky indeed.

It was, therefore, also agreed by many (politely, behind closed doors, in frevent hushed whispers where none could trace such sentiments back to them because that? Would be rude and hobbits are never rude nor did they gossip.)  Bilbo Baggins was not worthy of his smial. Not that Bilbo had ever done anything outrightly wrong in all his life, save being a bit more rambunctious as a fauntling than some liked and a little mushroom stealing (but who didn’t). In fact Bilbo had, since the untimely death of his parents, been a model hobbit. Perfectly responsible in all areas, tending to his duties promptly, always having his home ready for visitors, keeping an enviable garden (not that Hobbits are creatures prone to envy of course. Certainly not) he never strayed far from home, made noise past dark, showed his temper in public.

None could speak a bad word about him, save Lobelia Bracegirdle, who was in the process of being courted by Otho Sackville-Baggins and often had stars in her eyes when she looked towards Bagshot Row.

No, by all standards that were speakable in polite society Bilbo Baggins was a very respectable hobbit indeed. It was what no one dared to speak out except in those whispers they favored when they saw him going about his business that had so many agreeing with Lobelia when she said someone else should be the head of the Baggins family. It was how he’d been born, a sad, shameful, and pitiable abnormality, that would be forever weighted against him by his fellow hobbits.

When he’d been born word had spread quickly, by way of a young midwife’s helper who Belladonna Baggins would never forgive, and by the time his name was announced all in Hobbiton knew. The Bagginses had birthed that which did not have a name among hobbits, that which did not belong. It was a rare occurrence, one or two a generation in all of the Shire, and hobbits very much would have liked it to be none.

Bilbo was an unnatural thing, not male or female but rather entirely too much of both. In this his fate was sealed.

It was his mother’s adventuring, they said, her associating with wizards and elves and who knew what else when she’d left her home as no hobbit lass ought to. Oh, certainly, they appreciate Gandalf when he brought his fireworks and other delights, but far less when he was sowing trouble and turning their children’s heads round with his stories.

Or perhaps it was the Took blood. They’d never been a wholly normal sort, with a history of growing oddly tall or living strangely long, of *swimming* and fighting and yes, adventuring! Fairy heritage, or perhaps elven, or maybe even mixed with a little _dwarf._ Either way the Tooks were an odd bunch and there had always been some particularly odd ones among them, such as Belladonna and now her child.

Maybe it was a curse from their maker.

Adults were not outwardly cruel when he was young, as it was bad form to be anything but kind and indulgent to a faunt, but the young ones had not yet learned to hold their tongues and took on the scorn of their parents. To them it was a game to turn young Bilbo away from their games with barbed words and thrown sticks and rocked and they delighted in the closeness that having an outsider to turn their noses up at together brought. They preened when their parents clucked their approval; not that their cruelty and violence, as that would have been inappropriate, but that they made the right friends and kept the right distance from those who were ‘not right’.

Why, they said hands over their hearts and fear on their faces, what if it was contagious? What if it came to their families next? No, none of that, thank you very much.

Not all felt this way. Bilbo found friends in family, in some of his neighbors, and comfort in his mother’s tales and father’s books. He grew up always aware of what he was but not knowing to resent it, taking his mother’s insistence that he was as he’d been made by his maker and so he was as he should be to heart. He was a touch wild but good in all the ways that mattered. Perhaps, had he not been an orphan before he even came of age, this would be a very different story indeed.

But he was just that, father lost in the Fell Winter to the snapping jaws of wolves and mother lost only 8 years later to what could only be called a fading brought on by grief. Bilbo would, temporarily, be taken in by one of his many uncles, who was kind and loved him but was not his mother. He had not Belladonna’s spirit nor fierce protective streak. He and his wife did not encourage looking for elves in the woods or wading into streams and small rivers or mock sword fights as the sun set. They would never be able to look him in the eye and tell him he was made  just as he should be.

Instead they thought it kinder to help him become as respectable as he could. The right hobbies were taken up, the wrong flights of fancy left behind, and the proper image built. There was, even, a five year stretch where Bilbo attempted to live as a hobbitess at his uncle and aunt’s suggestion. He did have certain traits after all, a monthly cycle suggesting he could bare and a slight swelling of the chest, and others like him had found it easier to identify as such. He found he rather liked the dresses and fashions, hadn’t terribly minded growing his hair out, but didn’t much feel like a hobbitess when it came down to it.

Not that he knew what such a thing was supposed to feel like, since he’d only ever felt like ‘Bilbo’. But, he reasoned when he really thought about it, that was the entire problem wasn’t it?

Still he would move back into his home in time, take over all the responsibilities therein, and carefully make no missteps where any could see. Respectable, always.

He doesn’t even take action when Lobelia steals his silver spoons.

It does turn out to be, as his many cousins marry and have fauntlings, a bit lonely. There are never any courting offers and he isn’t surprised; he’d long since accepted that he had nothing so amazing to offer than any would want to tie their life to him or risk having faunts who took after his oddities. There are a few who come around, curious about what laid between his legs and little else. They wanted a tumble with the Unnatural hobbit, saw him an oddity to experience and for all that he knew that they wished to use him to satisfy an itch and that their kind words and visits under the cover of darkness were lies, it was tempting on occasion. Just a night with someone else, to be touched by other hands…

He was not wholly above the wants of his unfortunate body and he was not wrong about their intentions. The only consolation was that no one would want to admit to bedding him and so he could count on secrecy, just as he could count on being spurned after and treated as if nothing at all had happened. 

He resigned himself to being alone and, eventually, passing Bag End to a relative. Until then he would live his life as best he could. It wasn’t as if he wanted for anything, having a warm home, being rather well off, and having many young cousins to spoil. He had his books and his garden, did he not?

He was comfortable.

He was...well. He wasn’t *unhappy* and certainly that was something. It was enough.

It was what Bilbo told himself every night he went to sleep in a bed his father had built with dreams of a wife and many faunts piling in under the blankets. It was what he told himself when he puttered around his very large home, tidying unused rooms, washing linen and making beds that none had touched but him, when hesitating to completely fill his entire pantry and root cellar because what if no one stopped by for tea this week?

It’s what he said when he banished the thought that Bag End had been meant for more than one bachelor hobbit.

He believed it well enough. He didn’t long for a different life, nor really. He had long since come to terms with his lot in life and all that came with being born not as a hobbit should be. It was a simple life, slow and easy, and nothing unexpected ever happened, which was how things were meant to be.

And yet when Gandalf the Grey come to visit him one warm, sunny day speaking of adventure outside of his precious Hobbiton, outside of the Shire, he hesitated in his refusal, stumbled over the words he meant to condemn the very notion of adventures. And Gandalf, whose keen eyes missed nothing and who knew much more about his life than he knew, leaned closer.

“You have spent too long here, Bilbo, in your empty home and comfortable chair, pretending not to hear the whispers that follow you to and from the market.”

Bilbo felt his cheeks warm and looked away from the wizard, huffing.“I don’t know what you’re speaking of.” He said, pulling anxiously at his waistcoat.

And what was he to do about those things, even if he were to know exactly what the wizard was speaking of? Get upset, make a scene, demand the whispering and looks stop, cry out that this was what he was and there nothing he could do about it? Demand to know why so many couldn't just see past the oddity and take him as he was? Tell them all that he would prefer to be left alone rather than deal with their hobbit manners and proprietary that demanded they all be friendly in each other’s faces while thinking him a freak that shouldn’t have been born.

Such things were not in the nature of hobbits and at least in these ways he could be normal enough.

“You have changed and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf informed him, something achingly sad in his voice that made Bilbo shiver. “It is no easy thing to be told you should not have been as you are, and to have no one to tell you differently, so allow me to do just that. You, Bilbo, are exactly as your maker constructed you and as Belladonna loved you, and there may yet be those who accept you as you are.”

The words fanned at a flame of longing he hadn’t known was there, or at least liked to pretendwasn't because there was no happy hobbit in the Shire who _longed_ for anything they could not find among the fields and hills. And Bilbo was a ha...not _unhappy_ hobbit.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I suppose you think I will find those people on this adventure of yours? Convenient for you, that is.”

Bilbo knew such a thing was impossible. With his parents help he had long since done what he could to find information on men and elves and was certain they didn’t have _things_ like him among them any more often than the hobbits did. There was no acceptance to be found among the Big People because he was something that did not belong.

Gandalf leaned on to his staff and hummed, eyes too bright as they stared down at, and Bilbo was sure through, him. “Perhaps.”

Bilbo was not a hobbit prone to childish hopes, not anymore, nor one who put faith where it should not be. He could not be roused to starry eyed imaginings or to _longing_ for things that could not be. He was practical, very much so because he could not afford to be anything but. Gandalf’s words were not a promise, not anything near it, and he wasn’t exactly offering a lot in the way of explaining what he meant.

And yet his heart, ever a traitor with its wants and sadness and refusal to just be, thumped harder in his chest.

Something must have shown on his face because Gandalf nodded once, firmly. “It is decided then! It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me I think, to find out.”  

Bilbo opened his mouth. Then shut it. He squinted up at the wizard then sighed. “I am not agreeing to any adventure, mind you, but it would be impolite for me to not invite you in for tea and to hear you out. My manners, you will find, have very much changed for the better.”

It’s what his mother would have wanted of him and it had been a very long time since he’d done something he was sure she would have approved of.

Gandalf seemed to weigh that for a moment, glancing over his shoulder and staring off at nothing that Bilbo could see, then made a gesture towards Bilbo’s door. “I believe I can spare the time before informing the others.”

Bilbo turned on his heel, mind already shifting to what he could put together quickly and what sort of tea would suit and- “Wait. Others?”

Gandalf’s laughter was not at all comforting and was in fact rather concerning.


	2. Breathe out, breathe in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally twice as loing as I set out for it to be. Both Bilbo and Kili got away from me.

If Bilbo was being strictly honest, which was something he did strive to be when the situation permitted it, all the nostalgia caused by memories of whizz poppers and childhood sword fights aside, Gandalf was getting on his nerves. The Wizard seemed very adept at saying a lot while saying absolutely nothing at all and not at all inclined to let Bilbo in on anything beyond what he wanted to in regards to this little adventure of his.

Bilbo certainly respected ones right to privacy, how could he not considering his situation, but considering Gandalf wanted him to leave Hobbiton, leave the Shire, to aid him with something he would have thought the wizard more willing to part with information.

Bilbo whipped up some quickly done biscuits for tea, brought out jam, butter, and cream to go with it, and fixed a complementary tea. Gandalf was appreciative and the talk as they are was companionable enough, focusing on the state of Bag End (every bit as well kept as it had always been, Gandalf assured him), his garden (looking very healthy this season), the weather, and a bit of Gandalf’s recent travels. Meals were, after all, not a time for serious business for hobbits. No, meals were meant to be warm affairs, best when shared with friends and families over comforting and humorous stories.

All business and heavy talk was meant for after and Bilbo was very sure Gandalf’s adventure was going to be just that. The wizard was being polite and adhering to customs more properly than even some hobbits did and it was driving Bilbo crazy. By the time the plates had been cleared, last mugs of tea poured, and pipes lit he thought he might scream from impatience. Not so much so that he would break with propriety, oh no, but enough that he was puffing on his pipe impatiently and eyeing Gandalf unhappily.

Gandalf didn’t seem to notice, settling back in a chair that he should have looked laughably large in, yet didn’t, and smiling contently. Like he didn’t have Bilbo all worked up wondering what in the world he, an outcast hobbit of Hobbiton, could possibly have of worth to offer a *wizard* that he couldn’t find elsewhere. Did they need someone to grow something? Or perhaps host a party?

Because if so there were much better candidates. The Gamgees, down the way, had a number of prize winning gardeners among their ranks and while Bilbo could play host on the rare occasions it happened parties weren’t exactly a common occurrence in his life. His mother had been quite the hostess though, known for her ability to plan a gathering down to the smallest detail and somehow never have a major incident.

But then Belladonna Baggins have been an exceptional hobbit. If she were still alive he would have no problem understanding Gandalf coming to seek her out. Gandalf had once been a regular visitor, though the memories of it were very hazy, and Bilbo knew the wizard had tried to entice his mother into ‘one last journey’ many times. His mother had never gone, citing Bilbo’s age and Bungo’s general fear of the outside world (Bilbo almost smiled at the thought of his father’s indignant huffs and fond grins in response) as the reasons she couldn’t leave.

_“Not yet,” She’d said as she ran her fingers through Bilbo’s hair. “Soon.”_

Soon had never come.

And now Gandalf was here, for what was the first time since he’d come to offer his condolences for Belladonna’s passing, and there was only Bilbo. He was a pale imitation of his mother at best. Gandalf had to know that.

“I need a burglar.” Gandalf said, jarring Bilbo from his thoughts. He blinked up at the wizard then shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts and the melancholy that had followed in their wake.

“Well. A burglar? This sounds like nasty business, just as I thought, if you need to seek out a thief for it.” He allowed himself a sharp, fleeting grin. “However I might know just the hobbitess. She’s very handy at getting silver down her dress, believe me, and-” He stopped short, realizing the wizard was shooting him a very bland look over the top of his comically small in his hands mug.

Bilbo jerked back in his seat with a yelp. “Me? You can’t possibly...I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”

Gandalf arched a bushy eyebrow. “Oh? I’m sure Mistress Buckleaf and her pies-”

“A pie or two,” Bilbo started then, seeing the wizard’s other eyebrow join the first hastily amended. “A few pies, years ago, is hardly enough to be labeled a burglar. And, I’ll have you know, none of that was ever proven and I resent the accusation.”

“I suppose mushrooms and the occasional apple from Farmer Maggot’s crop also don’t count.”

“Certainly not.” Bilbo sniffed. And even if they did count, which they didn’t, none of that had ever been proven beyond the farmer’s angry insistence that he knew Bilbo’s head of curls anywhere. Belladonna had just clucked her tongue, insisted her Bilbo would never, and sent the farmer away with a fresh apple tart or fried mushrooms every time.

And he’d been a faunt, barely in his teens. He hadn’t pinched anything from anyone since...since he stopped playing in the woods, looking for elves and fairies.

Gandalf chuckled warmly and Bilbo found himself laughing as well, a bubbling one he couldn’t keep behind his teeth despite trying to keep his face stern and offended. He tried to calm himself but a grumble of ‘I doubt Farmer Maggot would agree’ set him off again. He could not recall, as he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, the last time he had laughed so hard or long.

He took a deep draw from his pipe, stopping when he felt heat dancing along his tongue, and allowed the smoke to sit there for a moment, calming him.

“Hobbits are very light on their feet and, as you well know, can be nearly undetectable when they are so inclined; you all would make perfect burglars if so inclined. And, more than that, I have faith in you Bilbo.” Gandalf said. The look the wizard fixed on his was distressingly kind and fond; Bilbo looked away, unable to meet the wizard's gaze. “I need a burglar, and there may be better yes, but they will not be Bilbo Baggins and so they are not what I need. You are unique-”

Bilbo didn’t mean to let a bitter laugh slip out. He flushed, mortified, in the beat of silence that followed then stood up, chair scraping over the floor loudly. “I think more tea is in order. Would you like more tea? I rather-”

“You are your mother’s son.” Bilbo froze, heart stuttering in his chest. “Belladonna was brave, curious, and she was kind. One of the most kind creatures I have met in all the world, and it constantly surprised me the lengths she would go to for others, with no thought to herself. I see that kindness in you Bilbo, and that is what makes you unique even among hobbits.”

Gandalf paused; Bilbo peeked up to see the wizard peering down into his mug, frowning deeply.  “There are dwarrow, in the Blue Mountains, who intend to travel very far in order to reclaim the home that was stolen from them.”

“Stolen?” Bilbo echoed, brows knitting together. “That’s terrible.”

“It was.” Gandalf agreed. “More than you know. It will be a long journey, months, it will be uncomfortable, hard, and very dangerous. The dwarrow are...they are a hard people and these ones in particular. Life has been kind to none of them nor have the other races; they have often been turned away or denied in their time of need time and again. They were forced to travel with nothing but the clothing on their back, to settle in a harsh place, and scrape out a living while illness and starvation ravaged them, and none offered aid. What was once a people who lived in the richest mountain now just barely survive.

“They will not trust an outsider easily or gladly.” Gandalf looked up, eyes fever bright. “But a burglar they need to take back their mountain, preferably one who is not man nor dwarrow, and a burglar I will offer them.”

Bilbo opened his mouth then shut it, words failing him. He sat back down hard, frowning deeply as he attempted to order his warring thoughts. The words about his mother, and what Gandalf thought was within him, weighed heavily but so did the image of a people without homes and no one to turn to. He knew a little about the dwarves in the Blue Mountains, in that every now and then some would come by and stay a while to help with the harvest or sell goods, and while many were willing to buy and trade with them there were others who avoided them, claiming them to be greedy, untrustworthy, and cruel.

He’d never had much of an opinion one way or another. He’d never had cause to.  

It seemed...the idea of having no home made his stomach churn. If Bilbo had nothing else in all the world he had Bag End, the home his father had made out of love and his mother had filled with the same. He couldn't imagine a life where he was turned out from it, unable to return. It chilled him to the core.

Everyone should have a home.  

He shifted in his seat, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Gandalf watched him, face giving away nothing. “You said it will be dangerous. Do you think they’ll make it?”

The wizard smiled slightly. “With help, yes.”

Bilbo’s fingers twisted together in his lap as he choose the right words for his next question. “And what of me, if I go? Can you promise that I will come back?”

“No.” Gandalf said; the word settled on Bilbo’s shoulders with all the weight of the world, threatening to crush him. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. “And if you do you will not be the same. But is that such a bad thing? You will have helped these dwarrow return to where they belong, and more besides. I think you, more than most, know what is to want to be where you belong.”

Bilbo smiled with humor he didn’t feel. “I think that might have been a low blow.”

“Perhaps.” Gandalf didn’t look the least bit ashamed or repentant.

Gandalf had left shortly after that, and refusing to answer Bilbo’s questions about how exactly the dwarrows had lost their mountain or what exactly he was supposed to be burglaring anyway. Both of which were very valid questions, in Bilbo’s opinion, and deserved more than a confused blink and a cryptic ‘I think that’s best left to those who know the story best.’ Especially consider Gandalf had swept out promising to return with a company of dwarrows for supper tomorrow, refusing to listen to Bilbo’s insistence that a day wasn’t enough time to prepare for so many, that he hadn’t agreed to anything just yet, and he really deserved more information.

In the end he hadn’t learned much of anything about the ‘quest’ the wizard wanted him to go on. He knew the purpose of it but that didn’t really tell him much did it? He knew it was dangerous but what wasn’t dangerous? Even going out of one’s door could go all wrong, couldn’t it?

That thought weighed on him as he headed down to the market to see about supplies for his not-exactly-welcome guests. Gandalf might have been acting rather inconsiderate, all things considered, but that didn’t mean Bilbo was about to be a bad host.

There was never an excuse for that.

Besides there was some humor to be found in the looks the merchants gave him when he requested the entire supply of trout and rabbit, a few hams, and enough vegetables that he wasn’t entirely sure he’d have room be brought to his home. (He had no idea how many made a company or how much dwarrows ate or even what they prefered, but he figured it was better to be safe than be lacking.) He stopped by the herb shop, a rare thing for him because his garden more than supplied what he needed, and kept his eyes carefully averted as he paid for bundles of dried queen anne’s lace, angelica root, and raspberry leaves.

He wasn’t sold on Gandalf’s adventure, not even close not at all and why did that sentiment ring hollow in his own mind, but if he was going to go he’d need to make sure his...nature could be accommodated. His mother had taught him how to make a powder that could be used to stop his monthly cycles and prevent pregnancy (and what an awkward conversation that had been. There were some things no hobbit wanted to talk about with their parents and getting talks about sex and reproduction, both halves of the act, remained at the top of that list) Bilbo hadn’t had a lot of cause for it, he could count on one hand the times he’d had a reason to grind and mix the herbs, but still prefered to grow his own in a shady corner of his garden.

It wasn’t a secret at all. More of a necessity considering how fertile many hobbits were; everyone couldn’t go around have thirteen children after all. But, while it wasn’t a secret, buying the supplies allowed people to talk about things that weren’t their business.

Still, potential needs were what they were and he didn’t want to see the judgement on the face of the hobbit who packaged up the herbs for him. .

Next came milk, butter, eggs, and some fresh berries to be delivered. He was looking over the blackberries he was thinking of getting, images of muffins and crumble in his head, when he overheard the talk.

“Dwarves?” He glanced up at the shocked voice to see two hobbits, barely of age by the looks of things, walking arm in arm. The one who’d spoken, Angelica Boffins, had a hand over her heart and looked bothered. “Really?”

“Yes, absolutely. My cousin came into town today, said he’s seen and heard of at least two dozen wandering about, headed this way, these past few days.” The hobbit, one of the Bolgers of which there were so many Bilbo couldn't be expected to keep up with them all, leaned closer to the other, face deadly serious. “They’re traveling with enough weapons to start a war I reckon, and no wagons. Nothing good is coming, mark my words.”

Angelica shuddered then, when her companion started laughing, huffed, dropped his arm, and stomped away. Bilbo watched from the corner of his eye then shook his head, amused in spite of himself.

Two dozen?

Blibo squinted down at the berries in his hand then reached for a carton of strawberries as well.

“That’s quite a lot.” Poppy Berrywich said, eyeing him from the other side of her stand. “Expecting visitors?”

Her tone was mild enough, giving away nothing, but Bilbo knew whatever he said would be known from here to the edge of West Farthing sooner rather than later. He imagined his large purchases were already a subject of speculation; even if he hadn’t been the local oddity there would have been gossip.

He did, at times, suspect that some of his neighbors didn’t have enough to do with their time and whispering about others was how they dealt with it.

“I am.” He handed over the coin for the berries then, acting on a strange mischievous impulse, added: “Two dozen or so, it seems.”

He tucked his berries into his bag and hurried off before the flush he could feel creeping up his neck could become too obvious. The picture of Poppy’s face, slack in shock, kept him smiling all the way home.

\---

There was something thrilling about the trip to the Shire, even if there wasn’t much exciting about the place itself. Not just because of the Quest laying out before them, but that as well, but because it was the time Kili and Fili had left their home not in the company of the uncle or mother. And because, while they had traveled to various settlements of men in their time, neither of them had been to the Shire before. It wasn’t anything like what they were used to.

The gentle slopes, green and lush as far as the eye could see. Fields and orchards practically bursting with crop, worked by small barefaced and bare footed hobbits sweating under the sun and casting confused glances their way. Long expanses of sweet smelling wildflowers and grass, perfect for bedding down for the night, and rushing streams that begged to be sat near or swam in, even as Fili laughingly declared they might have been scaring the locals. Children, wide eyes and running wild like they’d never be allowed to do in Ered Luin, watching, waving, and calling out to them eagerly before being tugged away by their clucking parents.

Kili knew some dwarrows ventured to the Shire to find work, helping with spring building, repairs, and planting, harvesting in the summer and fall, selling all manner of jewelry, tools, and toys the rest of the year. Thorin passed through occasionally during the travels that could take him away from years at a time. He’d stay for a few months when he did and spoke well of the hospitality and welcome he received when he did. Dwalin had been hired to handle wolves a time or two and grudgingly admitted that hobbits were a decent sort, which was a pretty grand compliment by Dwalin’s standards.

Many places tried to cheat them or wouldn’t let them rent rooms or find work, preferring to snub them or flat out run them out for whatever made up reasons they could, but apparently there was little of that in the Shire.

Kili liked it already. It was nothing like the stone of their mountain or even the unforgiving wilds that surrounded it. It was warm and bright, completely tamed and welcoming. ...even if some of the looks they got were suspicious. The occasional frown and narrowed eyed stare was nothing compared to how men could be and so it rolled off of Kili like water on feathers.

Most importantly Fili was enjoying it. They’d hurried from the point Thorin had separated from them, eager to get the quest underway and meet the hobbit who was to aid them, but once they’d gotten to the Shire things had slowed down. Kili had pointed out that they had time, Thorin had to meet with the other dwarf lords and then double back to them, Dwalin was finishing up work, the Ur’s weren’t due to leave for two or three days after they had; there was no reason to rush and end up there days earlier than the wizard had told them to. Fili had resisted at first but now he allowed for long mean breaks, for swimming and exploring off the road, for camping earlier than they had to. It wasn’t like his brother to delay, Fili had been nothing but distressingly serious since Thorin had started talking about wizards and signs and making concrete plans.  

It made Kili want to tear his hair out. Seriousness that matched their uncle didn’t belong on Fili’s face.

Watching his brother slowly unwind as they moved deeper into the Shire was magical for Kili. Fili’s shoulders unhunched and lost their tension, the lines that had taken up residence between his eyebrows smoothed, and that was smirk that never failed to make Kili’s knees knock together came back.

It was like watching the sun come out after the winter storm season.

“So,” Fili said from under the peach tree Kili had scaled and was now lounging in, back against the trunk and legs swinging. “What do you think of these hobbits so far?”

“Um.” Kili hummed around a mouthful of sweet and tangy fruit. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the flavor far more than he was thinking about Fili’s question. They didn’t get much fruit up on the mountain, save wild berries and crab apples, and what the bought and traded for was never fresh. James, spiced and preserved, mashed? Yes. But fresh was a treat that came far and few between.

“They grow good fruit.”

Fili snorted, face lighting up in amusement; Kili took another bite of his peach to hide his answering smile. Fili rolled his own peach in his hands, having not take a single bite in the time Kili had eaten two, then tilted his head back to look up at him. The loose hair and braids shifted, sliding back with the soft clinks of clasps colliding, and gleamed gold under the sun.  

Kili looked away.

“Uncle says they’re soft.”

Kili licked his lips, chasing stray drops of juice, brows knitting together. He didn’t know about ‘soft’ but they hobbits they’d spoken to in search of directions and to see if they’d seen any of their company going by had all been...very different from dwarrows. Nicer, less worn around the edges, no hard lines carved into their faces. Round and small, but not in the stout and powerful way Kili was used to.

Maybe soft was a good word.

“He isn’t pleased with the wizard choosing one as our burglar.”

“He told you that?”

Thorin hadn’t said anyting to him about that hobbit but Kili expected such things. He hadn’t wanted Kili on the journey at all, not really, but had grudgingly relented because he’d known Fili wouldn’t go without him. And because he knew Kili would likely follow anyway. Between that and the fact Thorin and their mother both thought him reckless, the rune stone sitting heavy in his pocket made sure he knew and wouldn't forget that, he’d never presume to be privy to his uncle’s thoughts.

It surprised him however that Fili was, though, the more he thought about it, it shouldn’t have. Things were changing. Fili was changing and Kili didn’t know what to do in the face of it besides hate it.  

“The night before we left, while you were walking with amad.” Fili confirmed. The rune stone seemed to become even heavier, as if it could sense Kili’s thoughts straying to it. “If we get to the hobbit first he wants me to observe him to see if he looks like he’ll be able to make the trip in one piece.”

Kili closed his eyes. “Why are you telling me?”

“You’re better at watching without being noticed.” Fili’s tone suggested he thought that should have been obvious. “No one has sharper eyes than you.”

Kili didn’t bother pointing out that Thorin didn’t seem to think so. Because that would have been childish and Kili was not childish. ...often. If he could help it. ...not where Fili could see it at least. And he was used to Thorin not thinking to ask anything of him. He...accepted it for what it was and didn’t let it become what it wasn’t. He knew Thorin’s actions didn’t reflect how much his uncle cared for him.

Just Thorin's lack of faith in his ability.

“Of course I’ll help. If we leave it to you the hobbit will throw us out because he thinks you’re some kind of peeping pervert.”

He could almost feel Fili rolling his eyes.  

If there was one problem Kili had with his uncle, one thing he would place ahead of all else to change or do away with about Thorin Oakenshield, it would not be his sterness or the way he put faith in Fili he did not in Kili or even how he’d smiled, joked, and played less and less as they’d gotten older. No, as bothersome as he found all of those things it was Thorin’s Rules for Courting that really got under his skin.

He hated them. Or rather hated it because really there was only the One Rule and all other things were shut down and subject to that all powerful rule. He despised it more than he hated anything else in the entire world. ...Well, not as much as orcs or dragons or the dwarf lass who worked in the tavern Fili frewaunted, but nearly as much as those things! It was a very close race, honestly, it could go either way depending on his mood.

The most noted difference as that he hadn't’t started out hating the rule, like he’s always hated those other things. Especially the flirty dwarf with her big brown eyes, lovely beard, and thick brown curls that held braids perfectly and never had a strand out of place. At first the rule had been a blessing to him because of, in no small part, that flirty dwarf.

When Fili was 71, just barely into adulthood and waiting for the final marker that would separate him from his tween years, some dwarrows had become to come sniffing around. They’d wanted to get in good with the Golden Prince early, to catch his eye or endear themselves to Dis and Thorin before Fili’s first season. There could be nothing official before they knew if he’d be an omega, beta, or alpha but that didn’t stop people from all but lining up outside of their apartment, just waiting for the word.

Kili had thought it was disgusting, some of those dwarrow had been old enough to be their parents, but Fili had never seemed all that interested in the attention. Nor had he been interested in his looming first season or presentation but that was how Fili was. Kili fretted and worried because what Fili would be was, in a way, more important than his own presentation to him, and Fili had long since decided that what he was, was what he’d be and gettong worked up would change nothing. 

When it did finally happen it had been miserable for both of them. Fili had spiked a fever, complained of chills constantly, complained of cramps and aches, and refused to let Kili in their shared bedroom for an entire week. Anytime Kili would try to so much as sneak in to get a change of clothes he’d been confronted with snarls and snapping. Their mother had been permitted in and even Thorin had stopped by to talk to Fili but anytime Kili tried it just upset his brother for reasons that had never been explained.

Kili hadn’t been able to understand his brother’s hostility then and still couldn’t.

When it was all said and done their mother had braided the braid marking Fili as an omega into his hair, on the right behind his journeyman braid, and Kili had despaired. Within the month their small apartments had been full of courting offers from all over. An omega was a rare thing, on par with the number of dwarrowdams, and when was announced offers were inevitable, no matter the bloodline or social status. But an omega prince of the line of Durin, even as displaced as they were, was something many shamelessly wanted for their own.

Nobles, businessmen, master craftsman all made themselves known. It was as if anyone who even suspected they might have a chance sent a letter to Thorin or Dis, often both, with extravagant bride prices, outrageous promises, and more.

Kili had silently seethed, sure he was going to lose his brother to marriage sooner rather than later, and before he’d presented himself at that. While life in the Blue Mountains was decent enough there was no denying that it was hard. Their people traveled far to peddle their wares and try to find work doing whatever they could, sometimes taking fathers or mothers or siblings or uncles away from families for years at a time. Whatever it took to eek out a life, to keep food on tables, was something their people would do.

Thorin worked hardest of all and much of what he earned went to the mountain and the people.

The gold some of those interested in Fili’s hand (in less charitable moments Kili wanted to laugh because Fili’s hands were not what anyone was after.) amounted to more than most families saw in years of work. Even Dain had made a bid in hopes of a betrothal to his son, Thorin III, when he came of age, and his offer had been enough to make even Fili do a double take and look like he was thinking about it.

Stupid noble Fili who could see the benefits of such a marriage and what the bride price would mean for their mountain, but couldn’t see what was right in front of him.

Kili’s brother was an idiot when it came to reading people and Thorin asking him to assess the hobbit was laughable. Kili loved him entirely and hopelessly in spite of that, which was a major concession in his opinion. He doubted any of Fili’s other would be suitors would find his obliviousness so endearing.

The offers had come for a year before Thorin had declared Fili his heir. The omega braid was undone, replaced with the one marking Fili as heir and future king, and with that the offers had stopped. Fili would never bare any children, not when he was going to be king one day, and he would be the one doing the courting when the time came, as it was with kings.

Visits had picked up in lieu of the offers, omegas and dwarrowdams all hoping to catch the heir’s eye and be the one he would court.

Thorin’s One Rule had followed. There would be, he’d declared while looking incredibly tired and frustrated, no courtships for anyone in their line until they took back Erebor. Fili wouldn’t take a mate until he had the full power and wealth of Erebor behind him and he would do it properly, in a manner befitting a prince of the line of Durin. And the same stood for Kili, no matter what he was to present as.

He’d rejoiced for a time, grateful to have Fili out of the grasps of those who lusted after him. He knew it was hypocritical when his own feelings for Fili weren't always perfectly pure but he also knew it wasn't the same. He didn't want Fili just for his body or children or some potential power; he was too young for children and didn't want the potential power and responsibilities he had now.  He wanted everything about Fili because it was Fili, handsome and arrogant, short tempered, selfless, rude, kind and gentle, thoughtful, playful, often stupid and ridiculous, rough hands and slow simmering smirks, soft words and gentle fingers, patient and demanding, the anger when Kili dropped his guard when they spared, the face full of dirt as punishment for dropping his guard, the pinched cookies as apology for the face full of dirt...all of that was Fili and Kili loved it, good, bad, and inbetween.

He knew that even if Fili would never belong to him he would always belong to Fili. He had since he was a babe and was first placed in Fili's arms and would until he returned to the stone; he knew it like he knew to breathe. It wasn't a conscious thought, it just...was. They weren't supposed to know if they'd found their True Mate, their One who was made for them, until they presented. Most people never found their One Kili had known Fili was it long before he'd presented and been able to breathe in his brother's scent. 

Smoke, burning pine, and something that never failed to twist his insides into knots when his brother walked past him or sidled up to his side dripping sweat and scent. He touched himself thinking about that smell or wrapped up in Fili's dirty tunics and it was all very shameful and disgusting. But not so much that he wouldn't do it again.

He'd presented as an omega as well (horrifyingly late at the age of 75. Ori was two years younger and had still managed to present before him. There had been points he'd thought even Gimli would have his first season before he did.) and had been...well, actually he'd hated it to begin with. That first season he'd been so hot he was sure he was melting from the inside out, constantly hard, wet between his thighs and _craving_ something he couldn't have. He’d cried for his brother but Fili had been away, hunting with Thorin and Dwalin. It still stood as the worst week of his life.

After all that had passed (and the annoying teething and scenting parts had been adjusted to) he’d started to appreciate being an omega. Fili would need a mate who could carry to continue their line and if Kili had been anything but an omega that would have removed him as an option. Of course Fili could just not have children but then the duty would fall to Kili and, had he been an alpha or beta and thus also in need of a mate who could carry a child, the issue would have been the same. No, being anything but an omega would have been a problem.

Just when he’d begun to be grateful the full weight of Thorin’s decree had set it.

Kili couldn’t make his interest known to Fili, as Fili would have to begin the courtship because ‘a manner befitting a prince’ came with *rules*, and even if he could there would be no courting until Erebor.

What had been a blessing was now a curse. The years since he'd presented had been hellish. He’d begun to wonder if they were ever going to take Erebor back or if he was doomed to be forever waiting.

News of the quest had been more welcome than he could put into words. He was convinced no one wanted to get that damn mountain back as much as he did.

Though he’d begun to think that wasn’t the way to go about it. What he needed to do was get Fili to make the courtship offer before they retook the mountain. For however long it took to get there it would just be them, Thorin, the wizard, and the rest of the company and if ever there was a chance to get around the rules it was now.

And, perhaps, there was something in the pit of his stomach, a strange prickling dread that stole the air in lungs and sent ice rushing through his blood, that told him if he waited until they took the mountain it would never happen. It had to be during the quest or not at all.

Somehow Fili would slip through his fingers forever.

He couldn’t let that happen though how he was going to get around Thorin’s rules and get Fili, thickheaded and blind as he was, to start courting him he hadn’t quite figured out yet. He had time, plenty of it, to find a solution.  

“We should get going.” Fili announced. He was already on his feet when Kili looked down at him, tossing his peach from hand to hand. “We can’t laze about anymore if we’re going to make it on time.”

Kili nodded and swung down from his tree, lacking the words to explain to his brother that as eager as he was to get underway he was dreading it as well. Each step closer to the home of their burglar was like a noose tightening around his neck, reminding him that ‘plenty of time’ might not be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity's sake: Fili, omega, which means he could carry or sire children. First heir, future king, which in dwarf culture means he'll never carry children because it's just not what kings do. This means his options for mates, as far as heirs go, are dams and omegas 
> 
> Kili: Omega. Second heir, which makes expectations less rigid, could choose a mate from any dynamic. Wants Fili.


	3. Why Don't You Let It Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue lifted from the movie where applicable, though the tone is vastly different.
> 
> Also like a page of Bilbo cooking. It...got away from me.

 

Bilbo woke early the day his guests were due to arrive, everything he needed delivered, set aside for use, and house rearranged. He found himself fretting a bit at the possibility of two dozen or dwarves in his home and hoping the market whispers were an exaggeration. He would welcome all who came, as was the hobbit way, but he was sure where he could hope to put them all. He’d dragged the kitchen table into the dining room, pushed it up against the larger one there, brought in more chairs, and decided it would have to do.

He spent his day cooking. His mother had been quite the cook, among her other many skills, and she had passed along much of what she knew to Bilbo. What he hadn’t learned while clutching eagerly to her apron strings or dogging her footsteps he’d picked up in her many recipe books, many written in his father’s hand and illustrated by Belladonna. These he brought down to consult, picking out the things he knew and loved best. Not just for the sake of his guests or even his own comfort, no, but to sooth his troubled mind. He was never quite as at ease as when he was cooking, though time spent writing come close, and he rarely had cause to do anything more than the basics to tend to his own needs.

But today was a rare occurrence indeed and his thoughts in an even rarer state. He could find no calm during the night, barely slept, and even as he flipped the worn pages of his books he was troubled. He had questions, a great many of them, and no answers at all.

What were these dwarves like? What did they need him for? What did Gandalf mean when he said that he might find acceptance among them? Were dwarves as he was? Was it possible that where hobbits saw him as a mistake of nature dwarves would see him as something common and unremarkable? And even if they did what good would that do him, to be among them for this adventure Gandalf wanted him to go on, and then to return to the Shire as alone and strange as he always was.

What comfort would come of being accepted for a time and then find himself alone again? Had he not endured that once, when he’d lost his parents? Would he allow it, and in fact welcome such a thing, into his life once again?

They were heavy thoughts indeed but cooking let him fall into state where his mind settled. He worked automatically, stopping only to check the books, and let his worries fade to nothingness.

He scrubbed and skinned, chopped and trimmed, mixed rubs and marinades to season meat with, tied herb bundles to melt into butter, drop into broths, and rolls of meat all morning. Some of the meat was broken down, bones and fat taken to be turned into broths and gravies. He made doughs well into the afternoon, breads first to let them be set aside to rise, then dessert in the form of crusts and cookies placed in the larder to rest and chill until later.

Fires were lit in the fireplace, the stone oven, and in the pit dug out back, fish wrapped in soaked leaves then set in amongst the rocks and covered with ashes. Venison that he’d had on hand, a delight that didn’t come around nearly as often as he would have liked was sliced for stew and ham for a soup. Vegetables and broth were added to both and then he left the great pots hanging in the fireplace while he moved on. Rice and grains were seasoned and cooked a bit then stuffed into birds and rabbits that he then took outside and put on spits to roast, potatoes tossed into the fire, and the bread dough taken down and separated into rolls before being placed near a window to rise again. The pie crusts went in to bake and when they came out to cool the bread went in next, one batch with added rosemary and garlic and the other with extra honey.

Fruit was washed and prepared for his deserts, berries dredged in flour and sugar then poured into a pan before being covered with a mixture of sugar and oats, preserved spiced apples and peaches went into the baked pie crusts then back into the oven. Cookies, their dough full of nuts, fruit, and bits of candied ginger, followed. What was left of the ham went out over the firepit to warm just as the sun was going down, though he spent an entirely too long amount of time hemming and hawing over whether it would be better slice it and place it in a skillet.

Unburying the fish took a bit of work and ended with some sore fingers due to his own impatience to get things going. He was finally beginning to set out the platters of food, covering all available kitchen surfaces, when the doorbell chimed. Sausages were hastily thrown into a skillet over the fireplace, along side some corn cakes, and then he hurried to the door. He smoothed back his hair as an impatient knock rang out, straightened his coat, glanced around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then reached for the door.

And hesitated, all the worries that had fallen away as he prepared, baked, and cooked crashing back into him. He had to open the door, he knew that, and yet his hand shook just above the knob. A sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach and something whispered in the back of his head that if he did this, if he let this dwarf in, his life would change.

The whisper sounded very much like Lobelia so, putting a smile firmly in place, he threw the door open.

On the other side was a dwarf. A rather tall, rather broad shouldered dwarf, bald on top of his head with thick hair around the bottom and on his chin, dressed in leather and furs, a heavy cloak over his shoulders. Dark ink marked the bare skin of his skull, bits of metal lined his ears, and many scars marked his face. Odd bits of metal covered his hands, armor that Bilbo couldn’t begin to put a name to.

All in all the dwarf was rather...intimidating, to say the absolute least of the matter. Scary if Bilbo was going to be honest, and not much like the more jovial merchants he’d seen from time to time. He couldn’t help but wonder if all the dwarves he was to meet were to be cut of a similar cloth.

“Dwalin, at your service.” The dwarf said, bowing slightly.

Bilbo blinked then shook himself, suddenly aware that he was staring. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s. Please, come in.”

He stepped to the side, waving at the dwarf. Dwalin looked around appraisingly, nodding in apparent approval as he shrugged his cloak off. Bilbo shut the door then, clearing his throat, gestured to the coat hooks on the wall.

“Cloak here, if you will, wipe your boots there, yes, thank you. Weapons, if you have them-” And indeed he did, in the form of two wicked looking axes that made Bilbo nervous just to look at. “Can go in this room, on the table or against the wall, or I can show you to a room and you can leave them there. ...or keep them on yourself, I’m not sure how dwarves handle such matters and hobbits aren't much for weapons at all and. Erhm. Yes.”

Dwalin eyed him, face unreadable, just long enough that Bilbo began to wilt under the attention before hanging his cloak up. When he was done he inclined his head towards Bilbo’s. “Wizard didn’t mention rooms but if you’ve got the space I doubt we’ll be declining.”

Bilbo huffed, thinking that Gandalf seemed fond of mentioning exactly what suited him and nothing more, as he lead the dwarf down to the hall of bedrooms. “I should hope I have the room, I would hate to see anyone uncomfortable in my home. I’m not sure how many guests I’m to have but Bag End has nothing if it does not have space.”

“Aye, it seems you have a very fine home.” Dwalin agreed and Bilbo couldn’t help but preen a little. His father would have been pleased. “Our company totals thirteen.”

Bilbo nodded absently as he pushed open a door. Thirteen. Not two dozen, thankfully, but still a   large number. He’d cooked enough for a sizeable number of hobbits but dwarves were a bit bigger and they’d all been traveling, he assumed, and would no doubt be hungry. He was suddenly unsure if he’d be able to feed them all but perhaps if he took out some more cheese and sausages-

“The sausages!” He yelped then, slipping past Dwalin, hurried back to the kitchen.

Preoccupied though he was he didn’t miss the snuffling sound the dwarf made when they came into contact. He took a second to wonder if he’d just been _sniffed_ then cast the thought aside with a shake of his head. Of course Dwalin hadn’t sniffed him! He’d cleaned himself fairly recently, shedding the clothes he’d been cooking (and sweating) in during the day.

His smell was not at all offensive, of that he was sure.

Perhaps the dwarf had a cold?

The sausages and corn cakes were saved, thankfully, and placed on a platter. He bustled around the kitchen, sprinkling a bit of salt over the fish, taking down a few wheels of cheese, and then grabbing up thick gloves to handle the spits outside. He turned, muttering under his breath about thirteen, *thirteen!*, dwarves, damn Gandalf and his vagueness, and collided with a wall he certainly didn’t remember being in the middle of his kitchen. A very warm, breathing, leather covered wall. That put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

He blinked at at Dwalin. Dwalin stared back, eyebrow twitching upwards, then made a show of looking around.

“This is quite the feast you have here. Expecting more than just us?” There was an undertone to his voice, something hard that made Bilbo take a few hasty steps back as he shook his head.

“Ah, no. As I said I was unsure of your number so I decided to make enough for a dozen hobbits or so. Do you think this is enough?” He looked around, frowning. “I have a few birds and rabbits roasting in the back that I am going to bring in but I thought some more may be in order and-”

The bell chimed. Blibo blinked owlishly, head turning in that direction. Someone else? Already? He hadn’t even brought the meat in or gotten Dwalin a drink! He was being a right terrible host already!

“That’ll be the door.” Dwalin said, head tilting slightly. His eyes, a gray that glinted like the metal of his axes, narrowed slightly.

Bilbo jumped then nodded. “Yes, of course. The door!”

He thought he saw Dwalin’s lips quirk upwards into a fleeting smile but his expression smoothed back into dark and closed off too quickly for him to be sure. He dropped the cloth holders and hurried to the door, apology ready on his tongue.

The dwarf on the other side was shorter than Dwalin, the long curled beard and hair on his head snowy white, and dressed in red robes. There were no tattoos or piercings that Bilbo could see, through this dwarf was as scarred as the last. He smiled genially at Bilbo, who couldn’t help but feel grateful at the sight of a far friendly looking guest, and swept into a bow.

“Balin, at your service.”

“Good evening. Bilbo Baggins at yours and your family's.” Bilbo said as he stepped to the side.

Balin glanced up towards the sky. “Yes, yes it is, though I think it might rain later. Am I late?”

“Late?” Bilbo said, looking at the perfectly cloudless and actually quite lovely sky. Rain? “No, no, certainly not. In fact only-”

“Oh!” Balin shouted, stalking straight for the kitchen. “Evening brother!”

Dwalin, bare hands wrapped around the ends of one of the metal spits and the back kitchen door open behind him, stopped in his tracks. Bilbo squawked at the sight of the dwarf holding what must have been blazing hot metal without anything to protect his hands. He took an anxious step forward then stopped in his tracks, the fact that Dwalin seemed perfectly at ease, as if he weren’t holding hot metal, sinking in. To the contrary he was smiling, widely.

Alright then.

“By my beard,” Dwalin said. “You’re shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, not shorter.” Balin corrected lightly as he strode up to Dwalin. “Sharp enough for both of us.”

Dwalin had just enough time to get the spit down on the counter before his shoulders were gripped and his head came down to collide with Balin’s. It looked like it must have hurt, the impact so loud Bilbo could hear it, but the dwarves merely smiled at each other and chuckled. Dwalin draped an arm around Balin and steered him towards the kitchen door.

“Come, the hobbit’s got two more of these back there, nearly as big as he is.” Bilbo huffed a little; the spits weren’t that large nor was he that small.

“Well, let’s tend to that then.” Balin said, turning to incline his head towards Bilbo again. “Very kind of you to provide so much Master Baggins.”

“Think nothing of it, please and you-you don’t have to help-”

Dwalin snorted. “Our good mother would have our beards if we didn’t.”

“And that’s all the hair my brother has. Can’t have his chin as bare as his head.” Balin added with a wink in Bilbo’s direction, expertly ducking a swipe from Dwalin as they headed out the door.  

For lack of anything to do, and finding that when he rushed to offer the holders both dwarves were doing quite well with their bare hands and waved off his concern, he headed to get the wine out and opened up and mugs of mead poured and set out for the dwarves. Dwalin and Balin continued to be helpful, moving the full platters and bowls to the dining room, carrying plates and silverware, and carving meat. They talked to each other in some strange, harsh sounding language and looked terribly serious as they did so, Dwalin at one point spitting something furiously and slapping a hand onto the table hard enough to shake it.

It was on that note that the doorbell sounded again. Bilbo was all too happy to leave what looked like it was about to become an argument behind to welcome his next guests. This time he found a pair at his doorstep, much younger than the first two. Not that he had any experience in the matter of dwarf aging but their faces were unlined, free of scars, and their chins lacking the lengthy beards of Balin and Dwalin. The shorter one had golden colored hair, marked with a few braids and metal beads, and a braided mustache, but a rather short beard. The other, taller, had brown hair that hung free around his shoulders and naught but a bit of stubble on his cheeks and chin. They smiled easier and broader than their companions and were practically bouncing with excitement.

It was incredibly endearing.

“Fili-”

“And Kili.”

“At your service!” They greeted in unison.

“You must be Mister Boggins!” The one who called himself Kili said and now he was literally bouncing, craning his neck to see past Bilbo and into the smial. “Are we late?”

He waved them in and, other than having to steer Kili away from his mother’s glory box and keep them from wandering off to poke around his home, they gave him no trouble. They were grabbed by Dwalin and lead into the dining room. Twin cries of delight rose up at the sight of the tables, so laden down with food that Bilbo was a bit worried about them surviving the ordeal. He couldn’t say when last they’d held so much or would have so many, eventually, seated around him. Certainly not since his parents had passed and perhaps even before that.

“This looks great Mister Boggins!” Kili said, eyes so perfectly round and wide Bilbo half feared they might roll from his head. Fili passed close to Bilbo and-

Had he been sniffed? Again? He looked up at Fili who grinned and winked cheekily before taking the seat next to Kili and grabbing a roll.

Bilbo took a moment to sniff himself, found himself as he should be, and shrugged slightly. Kili was kind enough to inform him that his rolls were also very good, once again calling him by the wrong name. “Baggins.”

“What?”

“My name is Baggins.”

Kili blinked at him then cast a look back at Fili who shrugged in response to some silent question. Brown eyes turned back to him, guileless. “That’s a strange name. Why would you change it to that?”

Bilbo opened his mouth then shut it, brow furrowing. What?

The arrival of the next set of dwarves kept him from dealing any further with that, though opening his door to have a ball of dwarves sprawl out onto the ground was rather jarring. They picked themselves up with introductions given by Gandalf (who looked utterly unrepentant when Bilbo tried to scold him for not giving an accurate number of guests). There was one more yet to come according to the wizard but it was best to start without him.

“If we wait for Thorin the food may go off. He stopped for a meeting with our kin but he’ll come. ...if he can manage to find the way.” Dwalin stated to rather raucous laughter.

Raucous everything if was being strictly honest. The dwarves ate loudly, drank loudly, and displayed some of the most atrocious manners he’d ever witnessed in all his life. Drinks were spilled and tipped, poured into things they ought not be poured into, dripped and swapped. The food was fought over, knives and forks clashing as hands smacked and grabbed, thrown about with startling precision, and gleefully devoured with open mouths and bubbling laughter. But they did it with great humor and many compliments and thanks.

Dori made tea that Bilbo had to confess it was some of the best he’d had in spite of the taste being heavier than he was used to. They struck up a conversation about what their people favored and brewing tips, prompting Bilbo to fetch some of his leaves to compare the lighter greens and whites the hobbits prefered to the flower and herbal blends of the dwarves. Dori and Bombur, who chimed in to talk of the use of tea as a spice for food, he decided were rather nice to talk to.

The rest...well. He could see where they might be an acquired taste, but one a hobbit could get used to. They would not be so terrible to travel with. 

Not that he'd decided he was going with them or anything like that. He was still very very undecided and had that always sounded so hollow and weak a protest in his head? Or had the arrival of these dwarves made up his mind before he'd even realized it? Surely not. 

Still it was nice to have life in his home. He couldn't help but think his parents would have liked to see the hall full and the sounds of more than just himself echoing off the walls, even if just for one night.

And then the singing and the mistreatment of his dishes begin. It started innocently enough, Ori asking what to do with his plates, but then Fili was juggling and throwing things about while Bofur encouraged the others to burst into song and-oh, honestly, it was just too much for his heart. Plates and mugs flew, the knives were beat against the table, booted feet stamped out a rhythm, Balin used a plate to flip things about to Kili and Fili who whirled about like parade dancers on Maypole Day, and Bilbo watched in abject horror as it happened. He chased his mother’s good pottery about, feeling very frazzled in the face of the bright grins and teasing laughter, only to find it all stacked and perfectly cleaned in the by the end of the song.

In hindsight he could see the fun in it, even if it had been at his expense. He sighed, allowing himself to be jostled and elbowed. Gandalf chuckled merrily, eyes twinkling when Bilbo dropped into the seat next to him.

“You enjoyed that entirely too much.”

“I rather think I enjoyed it just enough.” The wizard informed him mildly. “You could do with some more enjoyment in your life Bilbo, and less fretting.”

Bilbo thought that Gandalf could certainly tell others how to live their lives less but, in the interest of politeness and being a good host, he kept that to himself. Which did not stop Gandalf from continuing on, unfortunately.

“And that is why you need a good adventure in your life. It will do you good to forget about your dishes and doilies for a time, to leave behind your comfortable chair, and see the world.”

A heavy knocking on his door, echoing throughout the smial, kept him from telling Gandalf that he was well aware of the wizard’s oh so unbiased opinion. He spared a moment to wonder what had happened to his bell that the last member of this unruly company would need to knock so hard.  

“He is here.” Gandalf declared before rising to his feet and striding off.

Bilbo tried to beat him to the door but the wizard’s long stride got him there first and, clearly not caring about how inapproriate it was to open someone else’s door, Gandalf did just that.

“Gandalf. I thought you said this would be easy to find? I lost my way, twice.” He, who was of course another dwarf, said before stepping inside. There was a confident swagger to his walk and a deep rumble to his voice and, bother it all, was Bilbo eyeing him up?

No, certainly not.

Perhaps a touch but he didn’t think even the most prim of hobbits would think too badly of him for it. The dwarf was fairer of face than his fellows, save Kili, his beard short, and his dark hair streaked through with silver, which was a sign of a life well lived in the Shire, with a few braids spread throughout. It was none of that, however, that made Bilbo stop just behind Dwalin to observe the newcomer a moment longer. It was an odd fluttering in his stomach and a warmth in his chest before his heart began to beat faster that made him halt.

How strange.

“I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for the mark on the door.” The cloak came off, shoved into Kili's arms, to reveal furs, leather, and metal links. Bilbo’s eyes trailed-

Over to his door. He pushed past Dwalin and Bofur, who both made sounds of offended protest. “Mark? There’s no mark on that door! It was painted a week ago.”   

Gandalf, finally, looked contrite. “There is a mark. I put it there myself.”

Bilbo gasped, affronted. “You what? Why not ask me to make a sign or post someone on the road? There was no need to ruin my perfectly good door!”

The new dwarf frowned down at him, so obviously unimpressed that Bilbo found himself feeling a bit offended.

And that was how he and Thorin Oakenshield had their first meeting, one utterly bored and displeased and the other on the defensive.

It could have, he would reflect later, gone better.

\---

Kili watched his uncle look at the hobbit again, the most peculiar look on his face. There was something about it that was familiar to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the tightening around Thorin’s eyes and mouth, or maybe in the way his nostrils flared and his pupils stretched as he again took in Mister Baggin’s scent, or perhaps the way his lips drew back to show just a hint of alpha teeth before he hastily switched back to his usual stoney countenance and looked away, but it was something.

But what he wasn’t sure. Certainly he’d never seen that look on Thorin before, or else it wouldn’t be so strange and certainly wouldn’t plague him so badly that he scarcely listening to the talk of Erebor, Smaug, and their new burglar who was looking increasingly put off. It even distracted him from teasing Fili, who was forced to sit so close that their thighs were touching, for stating the obvious and there was very little in the world that could do take his attention from his brother. He’d once stabbed himself with an arrow and still had taken time, between the shouting and bleeding, to notice that his brother was rather lovely when he was worried.

It wasn’t until the hobbit passed out cold and Thorin’s mask dropped again, just long enough for him to growl at Bofur, who immediately ducked his head and showed the back of his neck, that Kili thought he might have an idea of what he was seeing.

Except it couldn’t be what he thought it was. Mister Baggins was not a dwarf, though he did smell...odd. Not like a dwarf but not like any of the hobbits they’d come across either. Nicer, really, than any of the other hobbits if Kili was to start ranking such things. And he was rather soft and nervous, easily frightened. Even if Thorin was a bit taken by the hobbits scent, a rather nice touch of honey and something earthy, it couldn’t be more than that.

Is what he would have said to any who asked if, after the last strains of their song faded and they began to speak of the path they would take and how they expected the journey to go only to have the hobbit peak into the room and offer Balin a signed contract, he hadn’t seen the flash of surprise and interest, actual genuine interest, in his uncle’s eyes. He hadn't seen Thorin look interested in anything but talk of Erebor in years. 

“You’ve decided to come.” Thorin said, confusion coloring his tone. “Even after hearing about the dragon?”

“Yes!” Mister Baggins snapped. Then, shoulders lowering and some of the tension draining from him, he nodded. “I have. I think I had already made up my mind before any of you even arrived, honestly but...well. Let’s say meeting you has further swayed me.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “So be it. We leave at first light so I suggest you make sure you have all you need ready to go.”

“Ah. Right.” Mister Baggins coughed, eyes darting to the side. “And what, exactly, what you say I would need for this?”

Thorin sighed then pointed towards Kili. “You and your brother help the burglar prepare. Quickly.”

He’d been told before, by his mother and Dwalin and Balin and even Oin, that he looked very much like Thorin had in his uncle's youth. He’d never put much stock in such claims, not seeing much of his strange un-dwarf like looks in his very kingly uncle, but that expression was one he’d seen on himself before. He’d seen it in streams when he looked down to avoid being caught staring at his brother’s body. He’d seen it in the polished glass of their mirror at home when Fili, fresh from the forge or the training ring, came so close he could smell the sweat drying on his skin and the smokey sweetness of his scent. He’d seen it in gleaming pots and pans when they washed dishes shoulder to shoulder, jostling and splashing, and the air rang with Fili’s laughter.

That look on Thorin’s face when Kili glanced back at him before turning into the hobbit's room was, without a doubt, one of a dwarf who’d found someone they wanted to sink their teeth into.

It was as intriguing as it was disconcerting...actually it was mostly disconcerting. Downright disturbing. He hadn't known his uncle could look so...hungry for anything but his home, and certainly not for another. While it had never been stated he'd thought Thorin one of those rare alphas who was more like a beta and thus had no interest in mating at all, which had always made the no courting rule particularly cruel in his eyes. It was easy for Thorin to not care about such things or feel chained by his rules when he never wanted to court or mate to begin with. This changed things.

True that spark of want might come to nothing (the hobbit was a hobbit after all and Thorin hadn't seemed to pleased with his personality) but for now it was something new to consider. 


End file.
